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Blue Dragon 5
Blue Dragon 5 is an encounter in Civil War. Enemies * Orc Axe Master (120 Gold, 120 XP, 120 Energy, 3/4/4 HP) * Orc High Warlord (150 Gold, 150 XP, 150 Energy, 1/3/3 HP) Transcript Introduction Orcs. Shadows. Darkness. Unlit lanterns. "Nevis." Beneath the cover of night, the clouds co-conspirators, burying deeds in- "Nevis!" Something shook him, rattling his bones. He opened his eyes. Dreams scattered to reveal a horrific visage. "Aaarrrggghhh!" Nevis squirmed in an iron grasp. "Stop! It's Chumgrak!" The orc laughed. Daylight surrounded his big green head. "You have nightmare?" He let go of Nevis and shifted back onto his haunches. Nevis sat up, watching the orc through wary eyes. He glanced to the left and right. The two of them were alone around the campfire's ashen grave, the others' places empty save for their gear. But people were moving around further into the camp. That removed some of his disquiet. "Where're Ryli and Yaealina?" Nevis said. "Praying, bathing..." Chumgrak shrugged his shoulders, as though both those activities were things that happened to other people. "We should go hunting. Kill breakfast." The orc grinned. Nevis tried to compose his face, driving his trepidation deep within. Was he being foolish? No... He couldn't believe that. Chumgrak's furtive mannerisms replayed themselves in his mind. And other thoughts latched themselves onto the growing mass. Crenus' orc allies. A lantern signaling on a hilltop, betraying their camp, revealing details of their strength and supplies. Perhaps even their battle plans, if Chumgrak had somehow learned of them during his nocturnal prowling. And now he wanted to take Nevis far away, beyond sight and hearing, where the orc could make him disappear without a trace. But why? Had Chumgrak seen him? These unanswerable questions whirled around his brain. Perhaps five seconds passed in silence, while Chumgrak's gormless, jolly expression never left his features. They felt like five hours. "Coming?" Nevis opened his mouth, groping for an excuse. Something moved in the corner of his vision -- a person, approaching. He turned his head. The relief died in his eyes. It was Theadric, his face locked in the sneer Nevis knew so very well. "Get up! You can't slack about here." He shoved the toe of his boot under Nevis' blanket and kicked it aside. "If Carolyn's not got you training, you can polish my swords." Nevis stared up at the bully. He knew he should be grateful, should leap at the chance to escape from whatever shadowy fate might await him. But that sneer, the vicious expression which had gazed down on cruelty after cruelty, made his blood boil. "Carolyn said we can find food." Chumgrak stood up. It was like watching a green boulder uncurl and take on a humanoid shape. "Chumgrak is hungry!" Theadric glared at the orc. Chumgrak flexed his muscles. A twitch ran through his powerful emerald frame, muscles expanding into a suit of fleshy armor. The bully grunted. "Fine. You can polish them later." He turned around and walked away. Nevis felt like laughing, until Chumgrak -- still grinning -- picked up his huge axe. "For hunting!" the orc said. "Get dressed." Chumgrak sauntered off, and began to cleave the air. Nevis tried to reassure himself while he put his clothes on. The orc couldn't have seen him. He'd been hiding behind the bushes, and Chumgrak never even turned in his direction. Maybe this was just a hunting expedition... He shoved his dagger into his belt, pulled the hem of his jerkin down over it, and went to join the orc. They walked away from the camp in silence for some moments, till Chumgrak spoke. "You know him?" He jabbed a thumb over his left shoulder. His axe rested on his right. "Theadric? He came from my village." "Enemy?" "Yes." "Chumgrak kills his enemies." The orc laughed. Nevis felt the blood drain from his face. They walked on for some time, further and further away from the camp. It was out of sight now, screened by hills and copses of trees, and they were truly alone. Nevis wondered if he could outrun his companion. Maybe... Chumgrak cried out and struck him on the chest. Nevis yelped. "What?" the orc asked. The boy's brain caught up with the sensory input. Chumgrak hadn't hit him... He'd put out his arm to stop him moving. And he hadn't uttered a murderous cry. "Deer," he said again. He pointed at the distant creature, a buck posing before a clump of trees and bushes as though waiting for an artist's brush to grant him immortality. "Just in range?" Nevis nodded. He unrolled his sling, plucked a lead bullet from his pouch, and let his hands fall into the familiar routine. Chumgrak stepped back when the weapon started whirling, spinning above the boy's head. Nevis tried to focus. His eyes fastened on the stag, picking his target. Steel glinted in the corner of his eye. He flinched and let fly in the same instant. "Good shot!" the orc said. But it wasn't clean. The moment of distraction had ruined his aim. The deer staggered, its majestic body wounded, and fell in a thrashing, kicking heap. "I'll finish it," Nevis said. He ran off before Chumgrak could speak. Even as he told himself he was being ridiculous, he wanted an excuse to get away from that massive axe. The stag wasn't struggling when he approached it. The animal's lungs still heaved, its eye still gazed up with intelligence and the spark of life. But it seemed to have accepted the inevitable. Crimson flowed from the red and black hole where the bullet had struck. A slow, agonizing death. Nevis would save it from that. He put away his sling, drew his dagger, and leaned down. The deer's gaze sharpened. It let out a sudden cry and lashed out with its hooves. Nevis screamed and fell. He landed on the creature, entangled in its grasping, kicking limbs, trying to shield himself as they jabbed and pummeled. A roar made him turn, twisting atop the deer -- just in time to see Chumgrak standing over him, his huge axe raised above his head. Murder shone in the orc's eyes. *** "Too many," Tessa says. "Yeah," you say. You look down at the missive in your hand, the note from Carolyn -- a local rebel leader. A messenger bird brought it to your camp at first light. It's short and to the point, which fits everything you've heard about the woman. A single line pledging that reinforcements will support you in the battle. You read it again, as if doing so might spawn phantasmal legions and make her promise true. But it doesn't. Whereas the orc warband across the field is very, very real. "We can win," you add, "but it'll be bloody." A tall orc dressed in thick, elaborate, vicious looking armor stands in front of them, his back to you. His exhortations are loud enough to reach you. The orcish words are incomprehensible, but their meaning seems clear enough. Kill, kill, kill. His warriors cheer and chant. Their spear butts drum on the ground. Swords and axes thud against wooden shields and clang against metal ones, an intimidating martial orchestra. You turn around and look at your own forces. There's a core of companions whom you know you can rely upon, fighters and spellcasters who are each worth two or three in battle. Perhaps a dozen in some cases. But plenty of the rebels are still raw. The very sight of the enemy host leaves them pale and trembling. You'd never have brought them here if you'd had a choice, but the news came and forced your hand. Withdrawing from the field means leaving the area to these orcs -- and allowing them to entrench themselves in the nearby rebel-friendly town. You can't let that happen. Where are those damn reinforcements? You sigh. If they don't come soon, they won't be joining a battle. They'll be helping to dig graves and build pyres. Conclusion Brawl boss unlocked! "No!" Nevis brought his hands up in front of his face. "Please!" The axe fell. It bit into flesh with a hard, heavy thunk. Nevis shuddered. So did the stag, its entire body convulsing. "What?" Chumgrak said. "Chumgrak is good with axe! See -- Nevis has his head, deer has no head." Nevis blinked. The stag had stopped moving. Blood gushed from its severed neck. A green hand grabbed his and pulled him to his feet. His legs almost gave way under him. "Good food!" The orc beamed at him. "We can share it with others." *** "Hugh!" "I see him, love!" The Titaran knew the oroc in every sense of the word. He understood her as well as he understood the shortcrust pastry and diced meat that had once been his livelihood, and that was something he'd never expected to be able to say about a woman. Her thoughts, her fears, her hopes, her kindness, and her courage... All these flowed around him whenever she was near -- as real and tangible as a school of shimmering fish. So the moment he saw the axe master, the muscular warrior whose weapon decorated the air with blood and sundered limbs, he knew what she'd do. Because she was Rakshara. And he knew what he'd do, because he was the man who loved her. She charged. Two orcs tried to stop her. One fell with his face a bloody mess, nose smashed by her shield and spurting a crimson waterfall down his chin and chest. The other's head flew off into a distant part of the melee. Another pack made for her, invading the sea of space and slaughter carved out by the axe master's cleaving blade. Hugh put himself in front of them. An orc roared. Then he wailed, when a purple fireball burst on his chest. He danced in magenta flame, pirouetting away, like the world's least graceful fairy. The next orc's demise was more prosaic: he died of cleaver related injuries. "Come on then, you sodding bastards!" Behind him, steel rang on steel. The oroc and axe master were dueling, testing each other's strength and skill, both seeking the glory that could only come from cutting down an impressive foe. Part of Hugh longed to turn around and join that fight -- to cut, smash, burn her enemy and keep her safe. But he stood before the raging orcs instead, hefting his cleaver in his right hand, infernal energy blazing around the left, guarding her back. Because he loved her. *** "You're the weakest chieftain I've ever fought." You spit the words at such close-quarters that flecks of saliva spray across his face. The two of you are pressed against one another, shield to shield, blade to blade. You circle backwards and to your left so he can't smash you into the dirt with his superior bulk. He matches the movement, following your rotations as though you're in a ballroom. The words may not be true. It's hard to judge between different hulking masses of green muscle and steel armor. But they have the desired effect. The orc lunges, driving his full weight and rage at you. This time you step to the right. First he loses his balance, then he loses his life. Your sword slices into the side of his head and parts his brain before he can right himself. Across the field, Rakshara strikes down the axe master. Their chieftain and champion are both gone. But the orcs aren't some verminous kobold army to break and rout the moment their leaders fall. They're still fighting, raging, wrecking -- and taking a bloody toll on your allies. Carnage fills the world around you. It's an environment you know well. One you were raised to endure and master. Yet dismay sinks into your stomach. Your people are fighting hard, but they can't hold out forever against this onslaught. It'll be a costly victory. Little better than a defeat. "Roderick!" The universe mocks you, underscoring your predicament by hurling the demagogue's name at you. "Roderick!" As though he could have done any better here... "Roderick!" The chant's growing louder, intensity building, finding new strength in weary throats. You turn around and discover why. Dozens of fresh warriors charge into the fray, wielding swords, spears, axes, and pitchforks. Carolyn's missive spoke the truth. "Roderick!" A tall, handsome man appears at your side. His broad shoulders and narrow waist might have come from a vase painting of ancient athletes, his gleaming sword from a tapestry of Lord Tyranthius. "%name% Kasan?" he asks. "Yeah." "I'm Theadric." He smiles -- a powerful, charismatic smile. Then he charges the nearest orcs. His sword cleaves flesh like a butcher's knife. You move to support him, joining your bolstered force as it surges forward and sweeps the green warriors aside. Category:Civil War